


Impossible

by allofmyheart



Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Insomnia, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofmyheart/pseuds/allofmyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he knows that it could never have worked, then why is it still so painful? <br/>Set between Episodes 2 and 3 of the TV series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is what came to me after watching the first couple of episodes of Series 1 of Grantchester. I have not read any of the books on which the series is based, therefore all the backstory I have given Sidney may be completely wrong and contrary to canon. This is just what my own mind came up with. Nevertheless I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> I would like to thank my invaluable beta RedSkyAtNight for all her comments and suggestions, and I'd also love comments from anyone who reads. 
> 
> The piece is set somewhere between Episodes 2 and 3 of Series 1.

The clock of Grantchester church chimes one o’clock in the morning. Soft, white moonlight gleams on the white stone of the church tower and on the cottages in the slumbering village. In the watermeadows, where the long grass rustles in the breeze by the dark, meandering river, the moonlight causes the blades of grass to glisten as they move. A barn owl drifts silently above the fields, ghost-like.

The light shines in through the gap in the vicarage curtains which Sidney can never quite get to meet, no matter how he tries, and a bright chink of white falls across the counterpane of the bed where he has been engaged in the unequal battle for sleep for over an hour. He greets the silver tone of the bell striking one with a groan and rolls over once more, limbs sprawling, burying his head in the cool beneath the pillow in a vain attempt to escape from the moonlight but more, from the procession of thoughts which refuse to give up their infernal dance across the private stage inside his head.

“ _Are you a virgin?_ ” The question was intended to shock, of course, like everything Daphne had said that night, and he has to admit that for a moment it almost caused him to spit out his wine. Fortunately, though, he was able to recover quickly and to give as good as he got, even parrying her next question, “ _Who was she?_ ” with “ _What makes you think there was only one?_ ” People are always trying to trip up a clergyman, to embarrass or startle him or to make him look a fool, and Sidney has learned, over the last few years, appropriate ways of reacting. Smile, never let a flicker cross your face, don’t reply until you have thought of something well-judged and suitable to say. It helped, of course, in this instance, that he was actually telling the truth.

There wasn’t only one.

It was in the war, Daphne was right about that much – about the war’s profound effect on him, on every aspect of his life. A farmhouse in Normandy, where his platoon rested overnight, exhausted by the battle to capture the farm from German forces earlier that day. He was bewildered, shell-shocked almost , overwrought by the strange mixture of relief and guilt that he was still alive when some of his friends were not. When the farmer’s daughter came to him, barely a trace of doubt or guilt crossed his mind before he surrendered, losing himself to her mouth and her hands and her body, desperate for a short while not to think or remember, but only to feel.

And after that, there were others. The young women of France and Belgium were not backward in showing their appreciation of their Allied liberators, and often – more often than he wants to admit now – he was only too glad to accept. There was something life-affirming in the act of sex, something that drove away the fear and counteracted the sight and sound and smell of death that were often all too present to him. They offered him an antidote to the poison, and he took it.

And then in Brussels, where they spent the winter, there was Juliette. Older than him, a widow, sadness behind the laughter in her eyes. With kindness and broken English, she not only gave pleasure but taught him to give it in return. She showed him how to be a lover, and for that he would always be grateful.

The recollections are having an uncomfortable effect on Sidney’s body, unwanted and yet pleasurable. Abruptly he turns on to his back again, flinging the bedclothes to one side to lie only in his pyjamas, hoping that the cool night air will soothe his overheated flesh.

There have not been many lovers since he came home from the war. The life of a theological student, of a vicar, his genteel middle class background – they do not admit such things. In his position there are expectations, and no anonymity, and so while all around him he witnesses his fellow men and women falling prey to the frailties of the flesh, it is a luxury he is not permitted. Then too, there are the teachings of the church on the matter, which he respects; and even beyond that, a simple, growing realisation that that is not who he is any more, that he wants more from a relationship than sex. And so he has been happy enough to be celibate, to do nothing more than link arms, or give the chaste kisses on the cheek which Amanda permits him...

Sidney turns on his side, frowning, and another groan escapes him. _Amanda_. Because that’s what this is really all about, of course. It’s not Daphne’s ridiculous questions or his own torrid memories that are keeping him awake. It is the thought of Amanda, and the knowledge that he has lost her forever.

He has always known, deep down, that it would be impossible. Their worlds, although overlapping, are fundamentally different. Hers is privileged, aristocratic, and though he and his sister have, by means of school scholarships, somehow found their way into the edge of it, they can never really be part of it. He can never, nor would he ever want to, adopt that air of – what was it he said to Geordie? – that _entitled ease_ with which those born to it approach life. To Amanda’s father and his ilk, someone like Sidney will never be an equal, but always, at best, a slightly pitiable adjunct, a role rather than a person. _Someone to say grace_.

But to take her away from her world – that would be impossible too. He tries to picture Amanda as a vicar’s wife – bringing up children, balancing the household accounts and doing the cooking, running the Mother’s Union and the church bazaar, all the while subject to the scrutinising eyes and gossiping tongues of the parishioners – and the thought is plainly ridiculous. She is too delicate, too fragile, too unused to the harshnesses and struggles of life, to take on such a role. She can thrive only where there is ease and comfort and plenty. In his world she would fade, like a hothouse orchid transported to an English hedgerow – fade and wither and eventually die. Not physically, perhaps, but she would die inside, become a ghost, a pale shell of the person she once was. And though she might try and try to make a success of it for his sake, eventually she would end up hating him for it. That is why he can never ask her. And now, never will.

He shouldn’t have let it go on so long. Her visits, occasional at first, soon became regular, though they both kept up the pretence, even to themselves, that they were “just friends.” He should have put a stop to it... but to him, her visits have been an oasis, blessed times when he can put aside his cares and responsibilities and find respite from the loneliness of his position. Times of laughter. Times when he can stop being a clergyman and just be a man.

And now it’s all over. Her visits, as she’s made clear, will have to stop now that she is engaged to Guy. “ _It’s impossible_.” And yet he cannot forget her sadness, the stricken look in her eyes as she told him what should have been the happiest news of her life. As for the moment when she gazed at him, in the church, and whispered “ _What if I don’t make a good wife?_ ”... He nearly kissed her then, properly kissed her, engagement or no engagement. If Jen had not come bursting in, distraught about Johnny, he is sure that he would have done. And that would have made things ten times worse. No, all things considered, she is right: it’s impossible to carry on.

And if he knows that, and he knows that it could never have worked, _then why is it still so painful?_ In frustration he rolls onto his other side, balling the bedclothes in his fists and burying his head in the pillow so as not to succumb to the tears which prick his eyes. Partly, he knows, this is just self-pity, the realisation of his aching loneliness. But deeper than that is the sense of utter wrongness which arises from knowing that Amanda is marrying a man she does not love. She is marrying for security and to keep her father happy, and he sees in her eyes that she knows it just as well as he does. And despite all his assurances to her that Guy will make a wonderful husband and she will make a wonderful wife, it feels like a kick in the guts to see her with someone who doesn’t deserve her, does not – he is sure of it – even know her, not _really_ know her, not see the unique, absurd, kind, funny Amanda whom he loves.

And he does love her. Has loved her for months, without really admitting it to himself. He loves everything about her: the tilt of her head, the sway of her hips when she walks, the way her huge, dark eyes dance when she laughs, the private jokes they have shared, her joy and vivacity and warm-heartedness, and now that she is lost to him, it feels as though part of himself has gone too. She has left a jagged hole deep within him, and while during the days there are a hundred things to keep his mind busy, still it gnaws away at him, unseen. On nights like this, when the moon turns everything to black and white and there is nothing else to distract him, the pain is almost unbearable. And the worst part, the sickening worst part, is the fear that he has made a terrible mistake. In spite of all the obstacles that turn around and around in his mind, he can’t shake the feeling that maybe he should have proposed to her. Because couldn’t they somehow, some way, have made a go of it?

The church clock strikes the half hour, and Sidney rolls onto his back once more, dragging a hand across his eyes. He knows that he needs sleep, and equally, that this is a night when it will not come to him without help. Heaving a sigh, he swings his legs around to sit on the side of the bed, then stands and reaches for his dressing gown. The bedroom door creaks and a bright strip of moonlight falls across the now empty bed, as Sidney heads downstairs to the solace of the whisky bottle.


End file.
